


Pocket Knife

by Mithlomi



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithlomi/pseuds/Mithlomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Susan knows how to look after herself, but he knows more...</p><p>Inspired by and for <a href="http://blagsden.tumblr.com">George</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Pocket Knife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orangegee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangegee/gifts).



The house is stifiling.

Surely, it is grand and lavish, full of the latest modernities and furnished in the most fashionable styles. They recevie call after call, some of whom she knows, most she doesn't but all compliment her on the fine job she has done managing the move and the décor of the house, how it was such a dreary, empty place before they arrived to fill it.

Susan smiles politely, as she was taught. Gives the appropriate responses to all the right prompts. Sits up straight and offers them a cup of Earl Grey, all the way from across the sea. 

She is a brilliant actress and in her youth she often wondered what it might be to run away with a traveling show.

She is not so naïve anymore...

And all the while, while it's pleases and thank yous and how do you dos, he stands in the corner, leaning against the fire place, cutting the apple in his hand with his pocket knife, loud enough to grate on her ears. The others ignore him, paying no attention to Pinkerton as if he is not there. The corners of his mouth are a constant smirk, and she knows it's all for her. He's laughing at her, knows how much she would rather be in his postion, ignored and free to act as she pleases...

She hates him.

He's crude. Obnoxious. Has no care for the opinion of others, especially these people. 

In that, Susan admits, they are alike. 

The last guests leave and Susan bids them farewell with a bright smile. It falls as soon as the door is shut. She turns to him, hands on hips, scowling, jaw set. “Must you always do that?”

He raises a brow and brings another piece of the fruit to his lips. “Do what, Miss?”

“That.” She gestures towards him. “Be... standing there. Be... irritating.”

“My standing here is irritating?”

“Yes.”

He shrugs. “Alright.” And he throws himself into one of the armchairs that have recently been vacated, and loudly slams his feet down on the table in front of him. He looks at her, smug in his victory.

Susan growls and stamps a girlish foot. Sometimes, she is still very young...

“You know...” he says, gesturing around with the knife. “I know you're trying to impress your fancy friends. But you never offer me tea, you know that?”

The remains of the teapot are thrown in his face before she storms out of the room.

She doesn't know why she can't help the small tug on her lips as she hears his laughter follow her down the corridor, and she quickly forces it away...

She has to get out. Out of that house before she screams. He is supposed to go with her. Hired for her protection. No matter her protests her father would not listen.

Susan is used to dealing with men who will not let her have her say...

So she uses the incident as her cue for an act of rebellion. She grabs her coat, pins on her hat and checks her purse, storming out of the house before anyone can stop her and making her way to the busiest area she can find.

Chicago city streets are different to those of old London town in many ways, and yet she notices the similarities most. The bustle of the crowd, the shouting of the street vendors, the smells, the sights of city life. She does not think she could survive outside of a city, locked away from civilisation in some country manor. The excitement courses through her veins, makes her blood sing.

Still, Chicago is not London, and it is that damn accent that films her ears and she cannot help but let her thoughts drift back to him. It grates on her, his voice and while she cannot think of any perfectly reasonable explanation as to why, she assumes it has something to do with the things he says...

Self-assured. Proud. Stubborn. 

She does not see the similarity, or, more likely she willfully chooses to ignore it.

He drinks and he smokes and he gambles and he takes nothing seriously, unlike her, his eyes always full of mirth, lips set into a permenant crooked grin.

She only realises how distracted she is when someone makes a grab for her purse.

But she is quicker, twisting her arm away to grab his wrist and raising her other to yank the small knife out of her coat pocket, pressing it against his throat.

It's him. Judge. Bastard.

He raises an eyebrow. “What the hell do you think you are gonna do with that?” He gestures with his free hand to the small letteropener she holds at his throat. “Geez, princess, a pencil is gonna do more damage than that...”

She ignored him, her blood boiling. “What are you doing?!”

“Making a point...” he says nochalantly, smiling at her.

“And that, pray tell, is the point you wish to make by attacking your employer's daughter?” It is her turn to raise a perfect brow.

“This one...”

His free hand grabs her own wrist and twists it behind her, turning her in the process so she her back is pressed tightly against his chest. She has no choice but to drop the blade, even as he pulls it his own pocket knife in front of her. The grip on her arm is strong enough to hold, but light enough to avoiding hurting her. Unlike her own feeble attack, he merely holds the blade for her inspection, close enough so she can see but far enough away not to threaten. The blade is sharp, bigger than her weapon of choice, reflecting the sun into her eyes. 

Much...

Nobody seems to notice the display or they are ignoring it.

Her breath catches, only a little, and she convinces herself that it is because he is holding a knife in front of her and not because she has caught his scent. His breath is hot against her ear, voice soft...

“You wanna be a child and run away, fine. I got no complaints. Gives me more time to spend your father's money at the liqour store. But I'd like to keep my job, thanks. Your daddy pays good.”

He twirls the blade in his fingers and offers her the handle. “You don't want me to protect you, then you gotta protect yourself.” The fingers on her wrist tighten a little, as if to make his point.

She pauses, chin raised even as he is pressed against her and for a moment she considers roughly pushing him away, slapping him hard and walking away with her head held high, ever proud and stubborn (and still she doesn't see the connection). 

But then his fingers loosen and he lets the arm that is caught between them fall and there's a funny note to his voice as he speaks again. “Please.”

She keeps her eyes fixed on the knife, as her hand slowly reaches out and wraps her fingers around the wooden handle. Only then, does she turn and lift her gaze.

He's not smirking anymore.

A pause. A long one, where neither speaks. She will not give him a thank you and she knows he does not expect one. She merely sets her jaw, trying to catch her breath after the sudden exertion and calm her racing heart...

And then he grins. And pulls out a cigarette. “Don't kill anyone without me.” He winks. “I'm off to see a man about a horse. Ma'am.” He bows slightly and tips his hat before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd. 

She watches until he is gone, frozen to the spot before she looks down at the knife in her hands. It's still warm from his touch.

She slowly curls the handle down and snaps it away before placing it in her pocket.

Where it stays. For a long time.


End file.
